The Purple Fig2015-08-02T16:41:14-04:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=the-purple-figCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for The Purple FigGood old fashioned elbow grease.I Dated an Older Man - And Didn't Like Ittag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2015:/theblog//3.70555342015-04-13T17:31:54-04:002015-06-13T05:59:01-04:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
Posters of a shirtless, tanned Mel Gibson and a smirking Kevin Costner in a V-neck T-shirt -- both well into their late 30s -- adorned my walls as a 10-year-old. The first man I pictured as I dry humped my pillow at 13 was 35-year-old David Duchovny. And don't even get me started on what I've done to Robert Redford in my mind.

I don't know why I was attracted to men who were old enough to be my father. It was so innate and so natural that I'm sure there's some kind of Electra-complex thing going on that I'd rather not think about (sorry, Dad). Maybe it had something to do with my being an only child and being exposed to adults 24/7. Maybe this old soul of mine was the culprit. Whatever it was, unruly chest hair and crow lines did crazy things to me.

My obsession with May-December romances wasn't helped by my mom, who would regularly say to me during dating fiascos in my teens and twenties, "You should date an older man." Her reason being that an older man would be more mature. More stable. More equipped to deal with my "strong" personality." I had a tendency to date men around the same age as me, take a few years below or above. Whippersnappers who slept on messy futons with emotional availability issues up the yin yang. I soon considered these men useful "practice" before the inevitable older man entered my life. The man who would just "get" me.

I imagined this older gent had been around the block, both professionally and personally. He owned a car or a home, or at least a piece of furniture that wasn't Ikea. He could advise me and guide me about whatever I was navigating in life with support and a "been-there-done-that" confidence. He could pay for dinner without coupons or a pile of loonies, and he liked vinyl records unironically. Most importantly, he had sowed his wild oats in his youth, so he wasn't into playing games and knew what he wanted in relationship and wasn't afraid to ask for it.

I eventually dated this older man. He was 12 years my senior with chest hair, a stable job and his very own Manhattan apartment. He was also a friend of mine for over a decade, which, I believed, boded well for our connection because we got along swimmingly, and he did "get" me. An added bonus was my being privy to his dating past. He was one of those perpetual New York bachelors: never married, never engaged, with a short list of long-term committed relationships. Maybe his relationship history would have been a red flag for most, but, instead, I only saw green. I thought based on his age, experience, and our friendship, that I would be the exception, not the rule. And I liked him. A lot.

At first, our relationship was what I had pictured life with an older man would look like. We spent quiet nights in his apartment with a great vintage bottle of wine or dined at only the most exquisite and refined restaurants. He'd tell me fascinating stories about his life, and he was always quick to offer sound advice for whatever was ailing me. He was also romantic in a way I had never experienced before, whisking me away on a once-in-a-lifetime rendez-vous to London and Paris. I felt like Amal Alamuddin -- without the sky high legs.

But for all of the pros, there were cons with dating my older man. We couldn't have sex in certain positions because of his back pain. Those quiet nights at home meant he was set in his ways. Whenever I stayed over at his apartment, I conformed to his way of living. My place as a "guest" was made very clear, and I soon understood that his habits of living alone weren't going change just because I suddenly arrived on the scene.

The wisdom he liked to dispense could also be condescending. He was undoubtedly a wise man, but he frequently took on a fatherly patronization that was not only unattractive, but also made me feel like I couldn't contribute to a conversation equally. I remember repeatedly telling him, "I can be right sometimes, too."

And as for the emotional maturity I so longed for? Well, I should have heeded the red flag flailing in my face at the beginning of our affair. There's a reason he's alone and still single: because he's more comfortable that way.

After nearly four months together, we broke up. But our age difference wasn't to blame. The truth is we were fundamentally different people. It didn't matter how old he was, or how young I was, we just couldn't fulfill each other's emotional needs. We broke up for the same reasons any couple of any age break up: we weren't compatible.

I realize now that my idea of an instant "perfect" relationship with an older man was a naïve one. Age doesn't always equate maturity or emotional availability, nor does it guarantee compatibility. An older man won't automatically "get" me more than a man who's my age, or younger. I crave now the quality of a partner -- not his quantity of years.

Although unruly chest hair and crow lines still do crazy things to me.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

]]>Losing it Less and Choosing Happiness Moretag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2015:/theblog//3.68576602015-03-13T08:16:42-04:002015-05-13T05:59:02-04:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
Yes, my boys are three and five years old so I realize that without their fully evolved ability to self-regulate, this concept is not actually applicable. But I figure, why not start the dialogue early? Are we right to assume that because it's hard for children to put things into perspective that we as adults have mastered this skill simply because we've been around for longer? I'm not sure about you, but I know all too well how easy it is to get stuck in the weeds.

Those damn weeds.

It can be quite comical to witness a child stuck in these proverbial weeds. There they are, arms stretched out, looking to the sky, "Why why why me?!" they seem to be lamenting. I may sound insensitive but after about a hundred of these outbursts that mainly stem from such things as the wrong colour straw or being called a poo poo face, one has to laugh at the rationale behind the emotion.

Ahhh, but when we're in it ourselves, there isn't much humour hovering close by. I can know that something is not that big of a deal but if I've been swept up by the drama already, it's hard to stay mindful of that. I have to admit that even though intellectually I can know all the right things to do--be present, choose happiness, be positive--it's not always innate in me to follow through. I think happiness is all around us--we just have to choose it to see it. Here are a few things I tell myself when irritation, frustration, and anger get in the way of the pure happiness that is right there for the taking.

It's better to try things than sit around and think about it.

Franklin D. Roosevelt said: "It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something."

The first time I saw this quote, it was written on a wall behind the bar of my favorite pub. Perched on a bar stool, I stared at that quote for a while and then back to the novel I was writing, with the cursor blinking in front of me on my laptop. I realized that if this thing never saw the light of day, it didn't matter as much as it did that I was at least doing it. I was writing a book. And after five years, several workshops, a thesis advisor and an entire degree, I placed it in the hands of my mentor, a very successful novelist. She said it wasn't finished. I agreed. I decided to admit frankly that it simply wasn't good enough.

I put it in a box never to be seen again.

I was sad for a little bit, and I felt bad for my characters that they had died in a way but then I felt a release. This release was from my own impatience. My new attitude reflected a sense of positivity. I had tried something that I had thought about trying since I was 12 years old. I had to realize that there were other projects in my future and that the skill of writing well may take a few thousand hours pecking away at a keyboard. The only way you fail is when you don't try. Having too much ego about putting yourself out there is incredibly boring and will inevitably end up in unhappiness. There is always happiness in the pursuit of passion.

Don't compare yourself to anyone.

Every week I go to my family medical clinic and get allergy shots and every time there seems to be a hotter, younger resident floating around. Last week I met with one of the residents to take a look at my knee that's been bothering me lately. I watched her porcelain-skinned hands move my leg gently forwards and backwards as she spoke in her sweet, soft voice. She did not have one wrinkle, nor did she have the edge of someone who'd been there, done that, seen this and cured that. I stared at her thinking how in the hell have you completed medical school and you're working as a doctor in a clinic and your skin looks so damn hydrated?! What have I been doing with my life? What did I do with my twenties? I'm a total failure.

And this is where things can go South.

For every hot body, there is another one up the road with flatter abs, tighter thighs and a perkier butt. For every woman who has kids, makes six figures and runs charities, there is another who runs a country. And for every person you think has the perfect life, there is a therapy bill to prove that we are all only human and the world is sometimes a pretty crappy place.

Being competitive in sports is hot; being competitive in life is not. All it does is suck the happiness right out of the moment. So, I commented on her amazing hair and how impressive it was that (warning her to please not take offence and only as a compliment) she's so young and successful. I walked out of there feeling really proud of her as a woman. That made me happy.

Impact people by what you do, not by what you tell people about yourself.

Have you ever been mid-story, telling what you think is a pretty incredible tale that sums up your entire existence and then someone interrupts you?

If you've ever read Eckhart Tolle, you know how he explains that the path to happiness is through the present moment. Spiritual teachers throughout history, along with Buddhists, have suggested the same thing. Being present is a beautiful thing, although impossible for some people. We may think the only way to practice this is to meditate or stare at a flower but really, a cocktail party is the best place to start.

It sounds easy but there you are, listening to someone telling a story and your response is being concocted at the same time, just waiting for the right moment to interject and share your thoughts. "I have the most interesting thing to say right now. I have a response! It's going to blow everyone's mind. I must share!!!" Being so eager to share our experience, we completely miss the moment and at the same time, we cut off the oxygen to someone else's important experience.

I have done it. I've done it more times than I care to admit. But when I really sit there and listen and take in what someone is saying without any thought of past and future, or personal anecdotes, my soul is nurtured.

Happiness not only lies in the present moment, it also comes from giving of ourselves.

As the late Maya Angelou said,

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

Look in the mirror and be honest with yourself.

The only person in the world I can't lie to is myself. Once we become brave enough to strip away the rationalizations and mitigation in the dialogue to ourselves, we become free. We may not like ourselves for a little while but as Marilyn Monroe once said,

"Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are."

Don't take things so damn seriously.

When I was sixteen my aunt moved in with us. My mom had just died and she was going through a nasty divorce so my dad figured we'd offer each other a source of comfort. In the end, he's never been more right about anything.

One day, she asked me to join her in court to offer support and hold her hand. My dad sat on the other side of her. At one point, about halfway through the proceedings, as her ex was questioned on his previous employment (trying to establish that he actually made a dollar here and there), he mentioned working as an animal homicide investigator. "You know, looking into, say, the mysterious death of horse," he'd said proudly.

This was a man who had lived off my aunt for decades, sometimes drinking away her hard-earned cash and living in the apartment that she had purchased while working as a nurse. But here he was establishing himself as a legitimate animal homicide investigator. It was too much for my aunt to bear and so, the giggles began to penetrate her entire body. As her shoulders pumped feverishly and her face became cherry red attempting to suffocate the laughter, my dad passed me a note. "Make her stop laughing," he implored. But like anyone sitting next to someone laughing at a time when one should not be laughing, I joined the giggle fest. The judge was visibly annoyed but we just couldn't stop ourselves. It was then that I realized, there can be humour found in the darkest of times.

We all have problems. Whether it be within our marriages, our friendships, our work, finances, inner demons--we can all attest to have some type of struggle. We could try and remind ourselves how lucky we are to live where we do with freedom and justice as we try to unhinge ourselves from sadness or frustration over first world issues. But the reality is, whatever the challenge, it is our reality and ours alone. So respect the emotion but don't stay there long. At the end of this life, will that problem be what you remember? Or will the moment at which happiness was reached be the vision that sticks with us after years of getting stuck in the gutter of negative thinking, over and over? I'm hoping and I'm thinking the latter.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>A Person's a Person, No Matter How Smalltag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2015:/theblog//3.68551622015-03-12T17:28:37-04:002015-05-12T05:59:01-04:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
Nobody knew then how she was about to change the lives around her.

A few weeks later, Brielle was diagnosed with Achondroplasia, the most common form of dwarfism occurring in about one in 40,000 babies born. Achondroplasia is a form of short-limbed disproportionate dwarfism. Dwarfism is defined as height less than 4' 10".

Dwarfism is a medical condition caused by abnormal (slow or delayed) growth. Often parents of children with achondroplasia do not carry the mutated gene themselves. The mutation in the child occurs spontaneously at the time of conception. It is a seemingly random occurrence that can happen in any pregnancy. Some 80 per cent of Little People are born to average sized parents.

An estimated 30,000 people have dwarfism in the United States and 651,700 in the world. So yes, it is rare. Often, the more rare, the more beautiful. And there is something quite beautiful about Brielle.

Over this past summer I went out West and saw another good friend of mine who had given birth to a boy just a few weeks before Paula. Holding her baby was very different. He could hold his head up without difficulty. His torso was strong and straight. I was so used to holding Brielle, I couldn't believe they were the same age. He even looked different to me. Brielle had become my new normal. I had no idea anymore what an average baby's developments should be at three months, six months etc., because Brielle was creating the new mould.

When she started holding her head up on her own, we all congratulated her. When she rolled, we practically threw a party. Because although milestones will be reached a little later than other babies, she has to work so damn hard to achieve them and in turn, we are going to celebrate, celebrate, celebrate.

For now it is physiotherapy with mom and therapist, trips to Sick Kids for tests and a whole lot of chilling and smiling. She is a happy baby and in my opinion, a perfect baby. For now she is Baby Brielle, the little baby that my boys are obsessed with and always trying to make her laugh and kissing her cheeks. It won't always be this way.

We have talked about what life will be like for Brielle when she is a teenager and how tough it is for young girls to begin with. We live in a society where teenage girls post videos asking the internet if they are pretty or not. The world is a nasty place. It's scary for any mother to let her child go out there and be vulnerable to all the cruelty that exists beyond our comfort zones.

And then I think of Brielle sitting there on her mother's lap looking up at us as we gab away, and there is this calm knowing that she seems to possess. It's like she knows something more about life than I do -- than anyone else in the room for that matter. It is as if through her many smiles and playful stares, she is telling me that she has the perfect soul for the perfect body. She knows it.

She will teach the people around her about disabilities and how she can do everything else her peers can do, but that she just has to work harder. Her physical differences will make sure of it every step of the way. She will also reveal how ignorance can shape a person and how they are not worth any time unless they have an opening somewhere in their heart.

But the most important lesson we will get from Brielle is to remember what really matters. Yes, she will stand in the face of adversity every day, but that calm knowing that she has will always be there. Whether it be through her smile, or her words, she will remind us all that life is not about how you look, it's about what you see.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

This year...Boko Haram kidnapped nearly 400 Nigerian schoolgirls during two separate sieges. Most of the students kidnapped during the first incident were set to write their final high school graduation exams that day. The girls, aged 16 to 18, have since been sold into marriage for about $12 each.

This year ... Amnesty International released a report detailing how scores of girls -- some as young as 10 years old -- have committed suicide after being raped and tortured by ISIS members in Syria and Iraq.

This year ... marked 25 years since a lone gunman stormed into an engineering class at Montreal's Ecole Polytechnique, ordered all the men out of the room and then shot nine female students. In just 20 minutes he gunned down 24 women throughout the school, killing 14 of them. A suicide note in his pocket listed 19 prominent women he planned to murder, blaming "the feminists, who have always ruined my life."

This year ... Jeff O'Neil of Vancouver's CFOX Radio suggested on-air that a host at another station should ask Justin Trudeau which female political figures he would like to "f---, marry or kill." It took CFOX almost 10 hours to issue an apology. The station rejected calls to fire O'Neil, saying he would be taken off the air temporarily instead.

This year ... Zahra Abdille and her two sons were murdered by her husband in Toronto, even though she had seemingly done all the 'right' things that abused women are supposed to do: she earned a master's degree while raising her kids; she found a job as a public health nurse; she moved to a women's shelter with her children for three weeks. But she also made too much money to qualify for either long-term housing assistance or legal aid to fight for sole custody of her kids.

This year ... Apple and Facebook each offered to pay female employees $20,000 towards the cost of freezing their eggs. Neither company increased the length of paid maternity leave allowed for their female workers in the U.S.: 17 weeks at Facebook and 14 to 18 weeks (four before birth, 14 after) at Apple. If the two companies put the $20,000 towards extending paid maternity leave instead, it would allow new moms at Apple and Facebook to stay home with their babies for almost two more months with full pay.

This year ... a group of male dentistry students at Dalhousie University formed a special group on Facebook. They posted comments about raping unconscious women and polled group members on which female classmates they would like to "hate f---."

This year ... the above phrase entered many people's vocabulary for the first time. That's because a former CBC employee accused radio host Jian Ghomeshi of saying he wanted to "hate f---" her after a work meeting. About a dozen women told similar stories about Ghomeshi, alleging that he choked, punched, slapped, sexually harassed or sexually assaulted them. Toronto Police charged Ghomeshi with four counts of sexual assault and one count of what the Criminal Code of Canada calls overcome resistance, choking.

This year ... several women also came forward to tell their stories of allegedly being drugged and raped by Bill Cosby. Large-scale outrage erupted over the allegations -- but only after another male comedian mentioned them onstage. Cosby's career and image remained untainted up until this year, even though the first abuse allegation was made 12 years earlier and a civil suit involving 14 women was filed back in 2005 (and settled by Cosby out of court in 2006).

This year ... we watched grainy footage showing football star Ray Rice sucker punch his fiancée Janay, knock her out cold and then drag her unconscious body out of an elevator.

This year ... female celebrities made headlines for their bodies instead of their talent. In desperate attempts to remain tweetworthy, Rihanna showed up basically naked at the Council of Fashion Designers of America gala, Kim Kardashian posed full frontally nude for Paper magazine and Madonna, 56, posed full frontally nude for Interview magazine. Although Jennifer Lawrence was horrified when private nude photos of her were stolen and posted online ("a sex crime," she said, which "sexually exploited and violated" her and other hacked female celebrities), the privacy breach made her one of the top Google searches of 2014.

Most of the time I consider myself lucky to be a woman living today rather than one born generations earlier. I marvel at how much easier I have it than my mother and all the women before her. And I am lucky; I have the ability to make choices -- about my education, life partner, reproductive rights and career -- that none of them ever had.

Looking back at the year we had, though, wasn't it still way too tough -- too dangerous, even -- to be a woman or a girl in 2014?

]]>I Have Never Been Kissed at Midnight on New Year's Evetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.64014742014-12-31T17:35:09-05:002015-03-02T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
Because of this, I have fallen back with some relationship lingo. The other day, my friend Arlene asked me if I have ever "cuffed" someone before.

"Cuffed?" I said. "What? Is that some BDSM thing? I mean, I don't have handcuffs but, sure, I'd be willing to give it a try. I have really tiny wrists though, so is there such a thing as baby handcuffs? Is that weird?"

It turns out that cuffing is when you decide to date someone for the winter months, especially around the holidays, so you can do all the cozy and couple-y things together, like being kissed at midnight on New Year's Eve. So, it looks I've fallen back on more than just relationship lingo because I've never "cuffed" someone, and I've never been kissed at midnight on New Year's Eve, either.

Okay. It's not like I've never ever been kissed on New Year's Eve. There are always kisses going around on New Year's Eve. Drunk kisses, friendly kisses, Dad kisses. What I mean is I haven't been passionately kissed by a man who I was in love with at midnight on New Year's Eve. Ever.

There's a reason for this, of course. Well, mostly that I've never dated anyone long enough to reach that milestone. My May-December romances have literally meant May to December. There was an exception once. I was dating my First Big Adult Love during the holidays in my early-20s. He was a bartender and had the shitty luck of working New Year's Eve, our first (and only) one together. We texted each other "Happy New Year" at midnight, and then an hour later, we shared a New Year's kiss, but, by then the moment was over.

I had always wanted my big Billy Crystal/Meg Ryan moment from "When Harry Met Sally" The kiss! The drama! The perm! I used to think, what better way to celebrate the New Year than by sealing it with a kiss from your beloved? It's tradition! Even English folklore says that the first person you encounter in a new year -- along with the type of encounter you have -- sets the tone for the rest of the year. And then I thought: Whoa. Wait a second. That's a huge fucking amount of pressure for a couple.

So now, I'm actually pretty happy that I've never had to kiss someone at midnight on New Year's Eve.

Sure, I could get all Debbie Downer and say, "Geez, I'm 32 and I've never been kissed at midnight by a boyfriend/husband? What does that say about me?" Nothing! It's a silly tradition that has pervaded itself into our culture, and it's really more arbitrary than anything. How many couples do you know who collapse onto the couch before midnight and share snores and not kisses? Everyone, right? Yeah, because that's what real couples do!

Here's the thing about New Year's: it's super lame. You pay $200 for shitty appetizers and one measly glass of champagne at some club where you are packed in sardines while wearing the most ridiculous sequin outfit that would make Siegfried & Roy cringe. New Year's Eve is like anything else in life: what value you put into it -- meaning love and worth, not money, not cinematic-worthy moments -- is what you will get out of it. Spending the evening with my parents playing Jenga sounds a hell of a lot more fun than being "cuffed" to someone shoving his tongue down my throat at the stroke of midnight.

The coming New Year, like every year, is what we choose to make of it, midnight kiss or no midnight kiss. New Year's Eve is about spending it with people who you truly love, period. (And it also doesn't hurt to spend it with those who you're pretty certain will stick around after Valentine's Day).

This New Year's, I most likely won't kiss the love of my life at midnight, and that's okay. I don't want kissing, and I certainly don't want "cuffing."

]]>I Am No Longer a People Pleaser at Christmastag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.63781142014-12-24T15:00:34-05:002015-02-23T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
I am a born and raised people pleaser, oldest of seven kids in a blended family with a type A personality. To say that I have always felt that it was my duty to uphold the family traditions would be an understatement at best, and boy, did we ever have a lot of them!

Church service on Christmas eve with my dad, step mom and all my siblings, followed by family skating at Gage Park after which we would drive around to look at all the Christmas lights. Sleep. Wake up. Open presents. Go to grandparents. Have brunch with aunts, uncles and cousins. Open more presents. Have Dinner. Go home to my mom and step dad. Repeat the above on the other side of the family now, oh, and don't forget to smile!

When I got married and had to add my husband's family traditions to mine I began to become more than a little overwhelmed. Three kids later and I began to look like that other bunny from the battery commercial. You know, the one who flakes out halfway through the advertisement? And even worse than that was the fact that I began to dread Christmas and my children could tell.

I would stress over it for weeks beforehand trying to figure out how to juggle getting the kids up early to go to my in-laws, then drive an hour to visit one half of my parents, then drive 20 minutes to my grandparents for a big dinner and then turn around and drive an hour home to visit the other half of my parents. Not to mention fitting in extended family and close friends on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. I was mentally exhausted just thinking about it and oftentimes found myself and the kids catching colds and getting sick around this time of year.

The final straw came when my oldest daughter fell asleep just sitting on the stairs halfway through taking off her shoes after a particularly exhausting Christmas day and it was my husband who turned to me and said, "Enough is enough. I refuse to do this. It's not even about the kids anymore."

And it all just clicked. Why in the world was I doing this? Why was I trying so hard to please everyone else at the expense of my own family? We weren't even enjoying the time spent with our loved ones, it didn't make any sense, my children were paying the price of it and all the sudden I no longer wanted to do it.

So I decided that it was time to make some new traditions by breaking away from some old ones. It would be like navigating a minefield to pick and choose what to keep and what to throw away so we did away with it all.

Every.Last.Single.One.

We called all of our family and said we weren't leaving the house on Christmas day. There would be no skating, no brunch, no Christmas dinners at Grandparents, no rushing around....nothing. Instead we were starting our own family tradition and had decided to have a Christmas Day open house and everyone who wanted to and could do so without adding any stress to their day was more than welcome to stop by have a bite to eat, have a drink and see our three girls. No pressure if they couldn't stop by but absolutely everyone was welcome to do so.

In the four years that have passed since our inaugural Christmas Open House we have had lots of family and friends come over and some very close ones that haven't been able to do so. Both my husband and I have heard grumblings, some quiet, some loud from both sides of our family about how selfish it was of us but when we see how settled, happy and excited our children are in their own home on Christmas morning and throughout the day it just reinforces to me what a great decision this was for our family. One that I don't regret in the slightest and one that I refuse to feel guilty for.

And one day when my children break away from this tradition to start their own, I hope that I will remember that really, that's exactly what I would want them to do.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>'Unexplained Infertility' Explainedtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.61725682014-11-17T17:39:21-05:002015-01-17T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
As someone who has been personally impacted by this frustrating label, I wanted to share both my personal story with infertility and shed some light on some key features of fertility that have very clear expectations, provided you go to the right source.

In the months before I turned thirty my husband I decided it was time to grow our family, we had been married for almost three years, were very much in love and both wanted children. It was time! It soon became apparent that it wasn't time after all. Month after month there was so sign of conception and the "baby making" that had once been fun and exciting became mechanical, draining and at times bordered on unpleasant. This devastated me. My whole life I held a philosophy that hard work and following the rules garnered the desired results. My whole foundation was shattered.

Finally, about a year and a half after "trying" I succumbed to the realization that I needed help. I had heard fabulous reviews of a reproductive endocrinologist (aka fertility specialist) who was practicing within 15 minutes of where I lived. I finally got the nerve to call and make the appointment only to be told that there was a five-month wait list. More frustration. For anyone who has been through the agonizing process and grief associated with not being able to conceive, you can appreciate that "waiting" becomes the bain of your existence. You wait until ovulation is approaching, you wait until you can do an accurate pregnancy test, you see the dreaded single line on the test and the waiting starts all over again.

I will say that when I did meet this doctor the wait was worth it. I adored her and within 7 months of being in her care I was pregnant. However, there is more to the story with respect to the "unexplained infertility" piece and this is important for women to understand so please keep reading.

Through all my diagnostic work up with my fertility doctor my husband was diagnosed as possibility having low sperm count, maybe? It was never clear on that end. I was diagnosed as simply having an ovulatory cycles. So, even though my periods were regular I didn't consistently ovulate. The fix? Clomid. On my first treatment round, lowest dose, I had a "fabulous response" two fully mature eggs, "the response to treatment could not have been better."

Wow, I thought, this fertility help is pretty easy, why on earth did I wait so long to sign up? I am sure you can guess that I did not conceive that month. Furthermore, I will also say having a nurse call you to inform you of a negative pregnancy result in many ways is worse than seeing the single line on your own self-administered test. More waiting.

My treatments went like this for four more cycles using two medications...great response, no pregnancy. Finally the nurse at the fertility clinic said to me "there are so many people like you who just have unexplained infertility." Unexplained? As a health care provider and researcher (I was half way through my PhD as this point in my life), that answer or reason or whatever you want to call it was simply not good enough. Unexplained by who? Unexplained by what? The answer is -- unexplained by the allopathic medical model.

So, I sought out a naturopathic doctor in town who had a great reputation. When I met her and she reviewed my history and explained a number of reasons why I would likely be having difficulty conceiving. Estrogen dominance, elevated cortisol levels and luteal phase deficiencies were all aspects of fertility that she discussed with me and she had various options in how we could address those issues. She "explained" that a system that is nutritionally and hormonally out of balance is less receptive to conception. I took a two-month breath from my fertility medication to work on restoring the capacity in my system through my NDs advice. However, I still didn't get pregnant.

After two months of no fertility treatment I decided to combine the insights of my two doctors (MD and ND) and is when the magic happened -- I found out I was pregnant that month...it finally happened! It gets better though, a few weeks later I found out twins were on the way...truly amazing!

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>How I Deal With the Comments People Make About My Adopted, Special-Needs Childtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.61339402014-11-10T17:26:31-05:002015-01-10T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
So we signed up for foster parenting classes and began the process of what was called foster-to-adopt, meaning you foster with intent to adopt should the child become available.

Our daughter came to us as a shy two-year-old. At first, some of the things we saw, not making eye contact, unintelligible speech, no real signs of potty training even though we were told she was potty trained, we chalked it up to just a bit of regression being in a new home. But as she got older things only got worse -- the tantrums over simple requests began, the screaming, pulling at the hair, anxiety in the restroom -- I could go on.

Soon I realized we needed to have her tested, but for what? In the process I found out that we weren't given her history and the family background that we were entitled to by law before the adoption (but that is another story). With the help of a local post adoptive agency we were able to figure out what we needed to do next.

So, fast-forward 11 years later. My baby girl is now 13. She is only two inches shy of my height of 5'8, she has a dancer's build, (although she has no rhythm,) her hair is cut short because she tugs and pulls at it constantly and we thought the shorter hair might help with that. She still isn't fully potty trained and she has been diagnosed with a host of disorders including autism/pervasive developmental disorder (she seems to exhibit a bit of both), sensory perception disorder, mood disorder (Bipolar) and ADHD. She constantly sucks her bottom lip as a way to self-soothe. The orthodontist says we can't go further with treatment until she stops -- we've tried everything.

It's interesting, for lack of a better word, the comments people sometimes think its OK to make when you have a special needs child that is adopted no less. I've been told things like, "It's so nice that you all haven't given her back with all that's going on," or "Do you know if her REAL mom had some of these issues," and "Would you have adopted her if you had known about all of this?" I soon realized people truly meant no harm; they just needed to be educated. So I often correct them and make sure they understand that I am her real mom, and that I could have just as easily given birth to a child with disabilities, so no, giving her back isn't an option. She is mine.

Sometimes people feel the need to come up to me and tell me how smart she is, as though that was ever in question. My daughter can recognize words on a 12th grade level so yes, she is smart -- but she can't tell when her shirt or pants are on backwards and that the tag almost always goes in the back. It's as if they think I need to be reassured, or that they can't reconcile the areas where she is so bright with the areas that she struggles with. I hate it when people go on and on about how smart she is while she stands there uncomfortably looking at the ground. I often wonder if she thinks I somehow think she isn't smart and I somehow need to be reassured.

I wonder how my daughter handles all of it, the over stimulation, the mood swings she can't control. Sometimes I know she feels ashamed, when she comes to hug me and says she's sorry after she's just knocked her plate over, ripped her shirt, tried to pull her braces out of her mouth, thrown all of her clothes over the floor and yelled "I HATE YOU," for a solid hour all because I told her she had to take a bath before having her treat. The look of shame sometimes breaks my heart and I feel guilty too. Could I have diffused the situation by letting her just have the treat first? But if I always give in, what am I teaching her? Even with a disability she has to learn there are rules in life you just have to follow, right?

I often feel like I am walking in a minefield. I never know what is going to set her off and I find myself in a constant state of... I don't know what to call it. Can I get away with making a stop to the store without giving her a treat or will she get upset? How do I change her routine when necessary without throwing her into a tailspin? When I take a trip and we are apart how do I make it less stressful for her? She's having her period and totally doesn't understand what is going on, do I try explaining it again, or just make it go away with a shot or birth control pill?

The journey I am on with my daughter is full of highs, serious lows, and a boatload of self-doubt. But I have to remember that while the things I deal with may be more stressful than most, parenting is tough for everyone, if you do it right. So this is what I've been chosen to do, and so I do it, because no matter what, I love her to pieces.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

]]>I Helped My Autistic Son Thrive By Ignoring Our Doctortag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.60936162014-11-03T12:32:20-05:002015-01-03T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
That one word, uttered by a white-coated doctor during the spring of 2007, was all it took to turn my life upside down. Since my son's birth three and a half years previously, I had been lovingly crafting a picture of what my family life was going to look like. I had been dreaming about baseball practices, rowdy birthday parties, graduations, weddings.

Now, as the doctor spoke, my lovely picture was shattered, and all I could see in its place was devastation.

"George has limited capacity for learning," said the doctor. "His speech is unlikely to develop any further. He won't finish high school and he will always need complete care."

As I sat there listening to him, I started to develop a headache. I realized that the pounding in my head was the sound of doors slamming shut. With a mixture of dread and desperate hope, I asked the doctor how certain his vision of George's future was.

"He cannot even point to objects of interest," the doctor reminded me gently. "That is the most basic communication tool, and without that to build on, nothing else is possible."

Later that day, I sat on my couch in a fog, watching George examine a piece of string. He was vulnerable, beautiful, mine.

I took the unbearable anguish with me into the shower, and as the water ran over my body, I cried great big gut-wrenching sobs. By the time I had towelled off and got dressed, I had stopped crying and I had made a decision.

I was not going to let the words of some doctor limit my son's potential. I didn't know what George would ultimately be capable of, but I did know that if I didn't even try, nothing would be possible.

So he couldn't point. If pointing was such an important skill, I would teach him.

That night, I sat in my bed with George snuggled up against me and a Bob The Builder book open in my lap. It was the only story that he had ever shown any interest in. He gazed into the book, but I had no way of knowing what, if anything, he was registering.

"Point to Bob the Builder," I said.

There was nothing -- no sound, no motion, no reaction at all.

"Point to Bob the Builder," I repeated softly.

Still there was nothing. As gently as I could, I picked up his hand with both of mine and formed his pudgy little fingers into the shape of a point. I moved his hand to the page and made his index finger touch the picture of Bob. I enthusiastically praised him for a job well done.

We did the same thing the following night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Time passed, birthdays were celebrated, seasons came and went. At times, the temptation to give up was almost overwhelming.

If you give up now, you'll never know if it would have happened tomorrow, next week or next month, said an insistent little voice in my head.

One evening, when this had been going on for about nine months, I wearily settled onto my bed with George and Bob the Builder. I was exhausted and discouraged, and I had spent most of the day fighting tears.

I opened the book to a random page.

"Point to Farmer Pickles," I said half-heartedly.

When I saw George lift his hand, my breath caught in my throat. I watched transfixed as he slowly curled his fingers and extended his index finger. He stared at his hand as if it was an alien being, and then, slowly and tentatively -- almost shyly -- he touched the tip of his index finger to the picture of Farmer Pickles.

Time stood still as I registered the fact that my son had just pointed for the first time. I stared at him in wonder, and then, as if I was in a dream, I turned the page.

"George, point to Lofty," I said. My voice was shaking.

With less hesitation and more certainty, George stuck out his finger and touched the picture of Lofty. I sat for a moment, immobilized by disbelief, then I jumped off the bed and ran to my husband.

"What's the matter?" he asked, startled by the tears streaming down my face.

"George puh-puh-pointed!" I sobbed. I turned around and ran back to my son.

I scooped him up off the bed and danced around the house with him. As I twirled with him in my arms, I saw a world of possibilities. For the first time since that bleak doctor's visit nine months previously, I saw the potential in my son, just waiting to be let out. All I had to do was never give up.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>How Facebook Stopped Me From Dating a Lying Creeptag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.60623382014-10-30T17:40:06-04:002014-12-30T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
But it was too late to back out now. I had already committed to going and plus, free booze and dancing is hard to turn down.

As I walked into the reception hall (with my parents at my side, mind you) I was reminded that these places are usually good spots to meet guys. While I wasn't looking for anything serious, a little drunken flirtation couldn't hurt.

The night was still young when he walked in. Tall, dark and handsome. The multiple glasses of wine swirling in my system only made him appear taller, darker, and more handsome.

He came here alone; that's a good sign, I thought.

One of my best friends happened to be a bridesmaid so I asked her if she knew who the mystery beauty was. She didn't but within a few minutes, the maid of honor approached me. "I pointed you out to him. He's interested," she slurred.

I immediately responded with, "Is he single?"

I guess it's safe to say I had my suspicions from the start. A guy that good looking would have to be dating someone. Miss. America? Gisele maybe?

But I was quickly assured he was single.

Cut to a few hours later and I am feeling pretty good. (My plus one for the evening had apparently been a bottle of Pinot Grigio). When I finally gained enough liquid courage, I confidently approached him. "Hi!" I said enthusiastically, following quickly with, "So are you married?"

I cringe now at the sight.

He told me he wasn't married and then we chatted briefly. The conversation was light and breezy. I could tell this wasn't the type of guy I would be having heated political debates with or in depth discussions on the meaning of life. However, I was curious to see how it would play out.

The party then continued at a bar next door. Conversation deepened, albeit only slightly, between mystery man and I for about an hour longer before I decided it was time to call it a night. (Actually, it was more my mother who made that call). Before I left, he asked for my phone number, which I was more than happy to provide.

The next morning, I woke up with a throbbing headache and many unanswered questions about this new guy. Within minutes, I had found his Facebook page, which included this minor detail: he was in a long-term relationship with his live-in girlfriend. From what I could gather, they had been dating for over six years!

As appalled as I was, I wasn't all that surprised. I'm not stranger to the cute, charming guy at the bar who, after further investigation, reveals himself to be a big lying creep. One time a Google search of a guy I met at a bar in Chicago revealed he had a frighteningly extensive criminal record. (This one really shocked me because given his preppy appearance I would have never suspected he had a criminal past).

Most of us girls do this -- we meet a guy then hurry home to see what more we can dig up on him. A lot of people refer to it as "stalking" and I would agree that some of us are guilty of taking it to that level. But if I'm considered a stalker for uncovering the fact that a guy I am semi-interested in has a long-term, live-in girlfriend or has spent time behind bars then I will gladly accept the title. Quite frankly, I'm grateful to have modern day technology on my side to help me uncover information that will deter me from investing further time and energy into a guy, regardless of how disappointing it may be.

But while dating at the peak of social media certainly has its advantages, I do often hear my fellow millennial girlfriends complain of how difficult it has made dating. "Texting and Facebook make cheater so much easier!" they'll grumble. Sure, if your boyfriend wants to cheat he can use the Internet as a platform to do so but that platform also serves as a database of information that can save you from a dreadful first date or even potentially dangerous one.

So thank you, Facebook. Had it not been for you, I may still be wondering why the cute, charming guy wasn't contacting me rather than grateful I haven't heard from that dishonest, two-timing jerk.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

Visit The Purple FigOn FacebookOn TwitterOn InstagramOn Pinterest]]>My Morning Sickness Was So Horrific it Sent Me to the ICUtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.60623182014-10-29T13:19:59-04:002014-12-29T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
When I was pregnant, I heard everything from ginger, to Sea-Bands. Like the typical first time mother, I tried every suggestion that was thrown at me. The truth is, nothing can stop Hyperemesis but extreme hospital treatment.

Here's a peek into what my world was like.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was overjoyed. My life seemed to be complete. After all, in my world, a baby completed everything. In my eyes, my life purpose was being fulfilled. At the time I had a great, stable job as a secretary for a bank. My plans were to work until I gave birth, then work from home. My plans didn't go the way I planned in the least.

My nausea started out small, at about four weeks into my pregnancy. A trip to the secluded bathroom at work here, an early clock-out there. Nothing too unmanageable. Fast forward to my eighth week of pregnancy, to the county fair.

After stuffing my pregnant face with all the goodies I could, I became uncontrollably sick for a week. I chalked it up to your typical over-indulgent, gluttonous food poisoning episode.

A couple weeks later, the same thing happened. Only this time, worse. My highest record for throwing up was 40 times in one day, and that was a normal occurrence.

My spells of sickness would last about two weeks, if I was lucky. If not, they would last much longer. I went to the doctor, who prescribed me medication for a stomach acid disorder. That wasn't the solution. Soon, routine doctor visits weren't enough, and I graduated to the lovely world of the emergency room. The emergency room held a certain level of magic for me. Often, I would go there late at night, after hours of puking. They would give me an IV bag and the miracle medicine, Zofran.

My emergency room visits became more frequent, providing relief for only a few hours. Finally, my doctor gave me a pass to same-day surgery, where they would spend four hours every three days injecting my veins with fluids and nutrients. No matter what they tried, they couldn't cure my sickness. I reached my darkest point when I was a couple weeks into my second trimester. My throwing up had become so frequent that there was blood in the bowl. I also had made myself a "nest" in my bathroom, which I never left. I started to become so malnourished that 25 pounds had fallen off my small frame, and I started to hallucinate. I have no clue to this day if that is due to the sickness or the 10 different medications I was taking on any given day.

During that time period, I remember praying to die. I felt like I was dying. My hair was falling out, my skin was dull and pasty, and my eyes were glassy. I could barely muster the strength to shower.

My lowest point was about two weeks into my second trimester when a nurse overheard me jokingly say that I wanted to slit my wrists. That landed me a visit in the observation area of the ICU with no cell phone or personal belongings till I was thoroughly evaluated. I had an intensive counselling session with the specialist, where I was grilled on everything from my home life to my acceptance of my pregnancy.

After about an hour of interrogation, the counsellor determined that I wasn't suicidal, just tired of being sick. Even through all the stress, the ICU was a blessing in disguise. I had the nicest nurses and finally received one on one care and a lasting solution. There they gave me a steroid treatment which eventually stopped the vomiting and other symptoms. I would continue to take the steroids for two weeks to build up my system.

Finally, I was able to go through the remainder of my pregnancy without many issues. Hypermesis had a lasting effect on my body, as my son wasn't carried full term. He was born at 34 weeks exactly, and weighed almost five pounds. I still have food aversions, metabolism issues, and anxiety. I can't look at certain foods or think about certain things without bursting into full on tears. I may have made it through Hyperemesis, but I'm not the same girl I was when I went into it.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

]]>How I Live With Anorexiatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.58762142014-09-24T17:51:11-04:002014-11-24T05:59:02-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
"You look beautiful," my mother said, thinking I was crying tears of joy. In that moment, I knew I still wasn't "better." I thought I had recovered, and I thought this meant I'd love the way I look.

I hate that my eating disorder tainted this precious moment that I cannot have back. I use this hate to empower myself.

Today, five years later, I think I'm "normal." Well, as normal as any young female in a body conscious world can be. But every day remains a challenge for me. The eating disorder voice that I had thought was gone is with me even today as I contemplate having children. "You'll become fat and hideous," it says.

I have gotten better at ignoring this voice. Post-eating disorder, it is possible to eventually lead a "normal," healthy life. The advice I have for accomplishing this doesn't come from dieticians and therapists, though their advice helped. It has come from fighting my greatest enemy, and winning, every day of my life.

Step One: Kick Butt

I was kicked out of my outpatient program for refusing to gain weight. I was a rehab rebel, and I was proud that I was too sick for them.

Today, I satisfy my taste for rebellion by fighting against the fragile form my body once took. I do not run, because I used to run 6 miles each day obsessively. It was part of my drug. Instead, I take self-defense classes, where fragility only hinders success. Today, I proudly have muscles.

I leave self-defense class having satisfied my irrational need to exercise regularly, which still haunts me every day. Fortunately, I have turned this compulsion into something that enables me to feel like I can protect myself -- from an attacker, from my negative thoughts, from relapse.

In treatment, I needed a perfectly balanced menu in front of me to tell me exactly what to eat. But today, I have no limitations. By eating healthily, I am able to satisfy my urge to eat foods that feel "safe" like whole grains, fish, vegetables, and fruits. Then I allow myself treats, because I have come to accept the pleasure and peace in food. I get excited to go to the grocery store, because once, I would not buy myself any food that I had wanted. Then again, I also used to tell people that I hated ice cream. As my dietician once said, "No one hates ice cream."

Step Three: Check out

That's right, check out of the world we live in when you need to. While eating dinner with my family at one of our regular restaurants, a waitress who had seen me at my sickest told me that my cheeks now looked chubby. This was right after recovery, and it sent me into a tailspin. I refused to eat my meal.

I also remember opening my clothing drawer one morning, and realizing it was filled with size 00 jeans. I tried them on, hoping desperately that I could squeeze into just one pair. They wouldn't fit over my legs. I had to buy new ones, and I was embarrassed to look for a size other than 0.

Back in my post-treatment days, I also weighed myself each evening. Today I can't, because my dietician stole my scale. In one fell swoop, she walked into my house and just took it. At the same time, she covered the mirrors in my house and took my 00 jeans, knowing I could not bear to part with them myself.

Not everyone has someone to do this for them as they recover their true identity. So do it for yourself. Today, comments about my weight still don't roll off of my shoulders. But I'm proud that my cheeks aren't sallow. I don't own a single pair of "sick" jeans, and accept whatever size I need to wear. I still don't weigh myself, and I feel peaceful that way. These are all forms, for me, of pushing away the world: ignoring comments about your body, even if they hurt, ignoring pressure from friends and family to wear a small size, and refusing to judge oneself by a number. We need to be active in our own universe, of course. However, there are days when the voices and the pressure to assign a number to ourselves can be too much. We can't stop these things. We can distance ourselves from them.

I have been "better" for seven years now. They say the average recovery takes seven years. I still don't feel recovered. It's too strong a word. I instead measure my success by the mirror. Where once I stood in my wedding dress and cried at the disappointing sight, today I stand in front of my mirror and smile. If I don't like what I see, I stand in front of the mirror until I do. I like to think that now, even though I'm not a stick; even though I eat ice cream; and even though someone thought I had chubby cheeks; I would feel beautiful at my wedding.

By Jill Pohl

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>The TDSB Wants to Move My Kids to a New School, and I'm Rallyingtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.58761842014-09-24T17:46:11-04:002014-11-24T05:59:02-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/Garden Ave Public School in Toronto got a shock -- we were told that our kids would potentially be forced to move to another school just over 1km away, with the TDSB saying they think that distance is not "too far" for JK kids to walk. The school is gorgeous and big but desperately under-populated. Our school is small and hidden and nearly at capacity.

Needless to say, we've rallied. There's been some negative backlash against the parents who are a part of Keep Garden United -- claiming racism, claiming classism, and claiming simply that we do not think that Parkdale, the school we'd be moving to is good enough. None of these are right.

On those first two points -- the area which is proposed to move over is the most racially diverse in the school. It also houses a high concentration of rentals (my family included). For those of us who live right on Roncesvalles Ave, PPS is over 1km away. Most of us have very small children and have to cart an entire group back and forth each day, so that "short" 1km walk becomes a cumbersome trek. Nevermind during a snow storm.

As for the school itself -- Parkdale is a lovely school attached to a community centre swimming pool and it has suffered greatly. It has wonderful programs but it is just too far for my family. It also currently does not have a daycare for preschoolers (Garden does) nor does it currently have an after school program for kids under the age of six (Garden does).

My family is currently on a wait list for subsidy for Garden (our son goes full time and until our subsidy comes in, every dollar is stretched) for both our 16-month-old who will start next September and our nearly four year old who needs the after school program once JK starts. If we lose our subsidy spaces in line, or cannot have after school care, what happens to our jobs? I'm trying to build my own business, and unless I can do that child-free, I'm not sure how I will succeed. My husband works overnights, five nights a week and that doesn't look to be changing any time soon.

Last year, when we were forced to move out of our family rental that we'd been in for six years, we searched high and low and fought to find a place within our community. We never once thought it was because any other community was "bad," but rather that our community was just that good.

We are a different family than some of the ones attending Garden, but we've never been made to feel unwelcome. In fact, it's been quite the opposite. Our little school, full of many different ethnicities and races, parents who are rich and not-so-rich, gay and straight parents: we are the village that's raising our kids. We support each other, we care for each other and most importantly, we see the value in our small, shared community.

This is why we're fighting to keep our Garden united. We worry that this is a part of a trend removing community from schools and creating mass buildings where children must be bussed. We worry that having our kids grow up in this beautiful city means they can't still experience small-town life. And I worry that we will not be able to afford what we need in order to maintain our jobs and sustain our families.

Although many people may not see it this way, this has nothing to do with any other school, but has everything to do with ours. It's part of our homes, our lives and our livelihoods and without it, I'm not sure where we would be.

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

Visit The Purple FigOn FacebookOn TwitterOn InstagramOn Pinterest]]>I Can Be a Feminist and Watch Submissive Porntag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.58511322014-09-20T10:16:14-04:002014-11-20T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
Porn is described as a "man's world," "chauvinistic," and "exploitive." When it came to my own exploration in the world of porn -- a lonely, frustrating night when my own imagination just wasn't doing the trick -- these words rolled through my head as I set my browser to private view.

A novice to the world of porn, I started with a simple Google search. When that brought me to videos and photos of men ejaculating into women's faces and girls being hogtied, I quickly started my search anew and typed "porn for women." This led me down a rabbit-hole of what I can only describe as stereotypical feminist porn. Most of the sites were fictional narratives written the way someone would expect Jane Austen to write a sex scene. Even the videos were fairly tame, mostly clothed, and just plain boring.

I went back to the hardcore sites; the ones where women were being tied up, the men allowed to do what they wanted to them. Women bound to beds, hanging by their wrists from the ceiling, gagged and unable to speak. I felt a mixture of horror and disgust and a feeling I wasn't expecting: arousal.

I began diving deeper and deeper into these sites, searching words like "bondage" and "submission." I was alone in my apartment, but I felt the eyes of all my female friends and strong feminist idols upon me, judging me, telling me that what I was watching was wrong. And the fact that I was getting aroused? Sinful. I imagined Margaret Thatcher slapping me across the face and revoking my feminist card.

What does one do when the thing that turns her on is so fiercely contradictory to her everyday morals? Here I was, a self-proclaimed, loud and proud feminist, daring society to not see me as an equal, to not give me equal pay, to think they had more right to my body than I do. I walk around with "I am woman, hear me roar!" practically tattooed on my forehead. And yet I was turned on by the act of being submissive to (and at the very mercy of) a man. A cloud of shame formed over my bed every time I set my browser to Private.

I tried to come up with a way to give these images and videos a feminist spin: She's only being tied up because she wants to be tied up. She's in control here and the guy(s) are only doing what her sexual fantasy desires. It didn't help. A thousand doubts flooded my mind about my own beliefs. Did this mean I secretly wanted a husband to submit to? Did I not want to strive to be at the top of my field? Did I want society to tell me what I could and could not do with my body?

No. I wanted none of that. I still wanted the right to choose whether or not to have a child. I wanted to be respected for my thoughts and opinions and not be dismissed as "just a bitch" if I was ever too adamant. I was still annoyed when someone referred to poor physical form as "girl push-ups" or "a girly throw." I wanted to be equal to men in society and in the workforce and not be judged if I chose to not have children. I was still a staunch feminist even if my libido wasn't.

I finally voiced my concerns to a close friend. Again, angry Margaret Thatcher rolled through my head. I waited for my friend to tell me I was sick and that these urges were wrong. Instead she said that my arousal made some sense. It's the things that feel "wrong" and "dirty," she said, that can turn us on the most. It's because they are so taboo that they can bring the greatest thrill.

She said that for someone who lives their life being strong and independent, perhaps the thrill for me was shedding that self and becoming the exact opposite in bed. It didn't mean I was any less of a feminist or that I was spitting in the face of all womanhood. It just meant that I was human, I had urges, and to put it simply, what turns you on, turns you on. And besides, didn't I want to be treated equal to men? If a man didn't need to feel ashamed for watching this type of porn, should I just because I am a woman?

No, I shouldn't. I like to believe Margaret Thatcher would agree.

By Georgia Knapp

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.

MORE ON HUFFPOST:]]>Adrian Peterson Doesn't Deserve a Second Chance After Abusing His Childtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2014:/theblog//3.58300682014-09-16T17:46:56-04:002014-11-16T05:59:01-05:00The Purple Fighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-purple-fig/
While it may sound like a scene from a horror movie, this is sadly the awful truth behind the Adrian Peterson child abuse case. In May, the 29-year-old running back for the Minnesota Vikings beat his four-year-old son with a switch. The blows from the wooden stick left the child covered in painful welts, bruises and cuts, which were still shockingly visible a week later.

Corporal punishment is a controversial matter, but this vicious physical assault on a defenseless young child is not discipline. It falls into the category of abuse, which is certain to lead to an endless cycle of violence.

On September 12, Adrian Peterson was charged with child abuse as a result of the horrifying May incident. However, CBS News reports that the Vikings have reinstated the NFL star and allowed him back on the football field. Peterson is set to play a game at New Orleans on September 21, despite the charges.

What's troubling is the fact that Peterson believes a simple apology can resolve the situation and undo the harm he's inflicted upon his young son.

He has issued an apology, saying, "I am not a perfect son. I am not a perfect husband. I am not a perfect parent, but I am, without doubt, not a child abuser."

After this scandal has come to light, we believe this public apology should be corrected.

Peterson is not a perfect son. He is not a perfect husband. He is definitely not a perfect parent, but he is also, without doubt, a child abuser.

By Fatima Syed

The Purple Fig is an online women's blogazine with an emphasis on realistic and inspiring personal stories from women of all age groups, lifestyles, and nationalities. We feature essays about parenting, the journey to womanhood, feminism, overcoming challenges in both career and personal life, and issues surrounding sexuality, relationships, and family life. This is where women go to be inspired by the knowledge they are never alone.